


Dearly Beloved

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Anachronistic, Drunken Shenanigans, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-30 20:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11471142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: base art byironicbeesCERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE.This is to certify that on this TWENTY FIRST day of APRIL, 1896, DR JOHN H. WATSON, physician, 44, and MR SHERLOCK S. HOLMES, private detective, 42, of 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON were united in holy matrimony.





	1. JHW 22nd April, 1896

**Author's Note:**

> Because contemporary fandoms shouldn't get _all_ the fun. This is deeply self-indulgent and has no update schedule. I will post what I post when I post it. Please be cool. I want to find out what happens as badly as you do. The rating is a promise.
> 
> Thanks to Mel for the beta, and to Morgan, Tassy, Clementine, Elly, Jun, Kelley, Heather, Rachel, and Jen for their support on Patreon!

When on a case, Holmes and I do not practice strict abstention from alcohol, though generally he prefers to keep his mind clear. When the case is solved, however, a celebratory drink is customary. We have our favorite restaurants and places of repose, and sometimes a bottle of Beaune comes home with us after a good night. Holmes has excellent taste in liquor, and our cupboard is graced with bottles of exquisite brandy and scotch. Our consumption of alcohol is, however, modest on the whole, and a proper bender is outside our usual realm of experience. But occasionally things go too far.

On the 22nd of April, 1896, I awoke with the sun in my face, my head full of cotton wool, and a warm body along my back. I wasn't in my own bed; I wasn't even in Baker Street. It was the work of several long moments to orient myself to the double-bedded room Holmes and I had rented at the only inn available close to the railway station, in the country town of Ferrymore Bridge. The morning sun pierced through the fog in my brain: a lance of agony.

I groaned and covered my face with my arm. The body behind me stirred, making its own noise of discomfort, and I opened my eyes once again. It was Holmes who lay pressed up against me, his arm across my midsection. I frowned, confused: we were not strangers to sharing a bed whilst upon a case, but had never ended up tangled together. It was most unexpected.

Holmes moaned again, the sound more awake and more unhappy this time. He shifted, drawing away, and rolled onto his back. Cold air rushed to fill the vacuum of the space he left behind. I turned as well, wincing as the movement caused my brain to slosh around inside my skull.

"Well, Watson," Holmes croaked, "I trust you are not quite dead."

"Not quite," I said, lifting my hands to cover my face. Something flashed upon my finger, and I stopped.

I was wearing my wedding ring. I hadn't worn my wedding ring for years, not since Mary had passed away. I kept it in a velvet box in a drawer, safe and unseen.

"What," I began, only to realize it wasn't quite the same ring. My wedding ring was a solid yellow gold band; this ring shone brighter, with decorative engraving around the edges.

I brought my hand closer to my face to peer at it. Holmes's body was still a line of warm comfort against my arm and thigh. Our knees bumped upon the bed. We were sharing a quilt. I felt him move closer, and his breath was warm against my shoulder.

"Watson," he said slowly, "I suppose I should congratulate you."

"I-I'm not sure you should," said I. "There must be some mistake."

Holmes made a noise that might have been a laugh, had it not been choked off abruptly. He lifted his own left hand so that I could see it; he was wearing a matching ring.

"It would be a very shocking mistake indeed," he said.

We were silent, lying on our backs in the bed staring at our upraised hands. Privately, feeling a little sick to my stomach, I thought the ring suited Holmes's long, pale fingers beautifully.

"Holmes, what–" I began, but there was a tap at the door.

"Come in," Holmes said, automatically, before either of us had a chance to think what it might look like. At least we were decent in our shirtsleeves and drawers.

The door opened, and the landlady came in bearing a tray. Holmes sat up at once, and then leaned over hard, clutching his head. His back heaved, but he didn't vomit. His strength of will is something I have always admired. I sat up more slowly, feeling my way gingerly upright. My head was pounding.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" the landlady trilled. She set the tray down on the little table, pushing aside a scroll of paper tied with a ribbon, and uncovered the dishes. The smell of eggs, rashers, toast, and tomatoes and beans made my stomach give an alarming growl. "And what a beautiful morning it is, when love is in the air. Will you be requiring anything else this morning, or shall I leave you gentlemen alone for a while longer?" She didn't wink, but it was heavily implied.

"Holmes," I hissed, my eyes fixed upon the scroll.

"I'm all right," he rasped. "I'm fine. Watson, if they have to send for the coroner, you'll know what killed me."

"1863 Chateau Lafite?"

Holmes gagged again and put his head down once more, pushing his face into the pillows.

The landlady was waiting for our reply. 

"Thank you," I said. "We're fine, I'm sure."

She beamed. "I'll leave you to your morning repast," she said. "Eliza will come for the tray when you're finished."

When she was gone, I levered myself out of bed. The ring weighed heavy on my left hand. I managed to make it to the table without falling to the floor, poured and gulped down a glass of water, and then picked up the roll of paper. I untied the ribbon and coaxed the paper open between my hands.

_Certificate of Marriage_ , I read, my heart sinking. _This is to certify that on this TWENTY FIRST day of APRIL, 1896, DR JOHN H. WATSON, physician, 44, and MR SHERLOCK S. HOLMES, private detective, 42, of 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON were united in holy matrimony._

It was witnessed by two names I didn't recognize, in handwriting that suggested they were plucked without due consideration from the local population, and signed by the Reverend Frederick Jennings.

That name was familiar. We'd interviewed him during the case, looking for his opinion on the local landowner who'd gone missing.

Below Jennings's signature were Holmes's and my own: sloppy but deliberate.

God, we'd really done it.

_But why had we done it?_ I wondered. It wasn't as if we were in love. Holmes and I had a very deep and affectionate friendship, but marriage? It was a strange and unexpected step for us to take, even if the privilege had been granted to all as a result of Oscar Wilde's trial the year before. I had never considered Holmes in such a light, nor, I was sure, had he done so for me.

"Holmes," said I.

His reply was a muffled grunt.

"You'd better come see this."

"If it's breakfast," he said, "absolutely not."

"No, it's–"

"Watson, _please_ , let me die in peace," he begged.

I sat down to breakfast alone, accompanied only by his soft, slightly labored breathing, and the loosely-rolled document on the table. 

As I ate, I tried to think on the night before, but my head hurt a great deal. I remembered sitting down to dinner with Holmes, in high spirits after the rescue of Sir George Duncan. The innkeeper had plied us with wine and brandy, in gratitude, and we had eaten well. Sir George and his wife Lady Harriet were toasted and celebrated, being beloved among the townspeople— or at least tolerated and appreciated for their efforts to to maintain the ancient family estate— and we were lauded for rescuing the young man from certain death.

I remembered finishing dinner and opening another bottle of wine. Holmes and I were both tipsy at that point: he relaxes and raises his voice, as if people aren't hanging on his every word anyway, and he was nearly shouting to be heard over the cacophony that was the inn after eight o'clock. He had reached over to get my attention, to illustrate some point to someone, and he had caught hold of my hand.

I looked down at my palm. He hadn't let go of my hand for a long time, I thought. He'd just held it, there on the table, as if that were something we did.

Holmes had gotten too warm, he said, and we'd taken our bottle outside into the lane. He'd left his coat behind. I looked around for it now, and found it hung up inside the door. Good. Anyway, we'd gone outside to sit on a wall. It had been quieter, and Holmes and I could more easily talk with one another. We spent every day together, and we'd decided to escape the crush of the public to have _more_ time alone.

That was the last thing I remembered: sitting with Holmes out-of-doors, the noisy inn behind me, watching him drink wine straight from the bottle.

And now there was a wedding ring on my finger and a certificate in front of me promising its legitimacy. I wasn't sure I could admit to Holmes I didn't remember any of it. Suppose he'd confessed his long-hidden love for me.

I looked over at him, prone on the bed with his head under the pillow, unconvinced. Holmes had hidden a lot of things over the years, but a yearning desire for me was unlikely.

What _was_ likely was a pragmatic mutual decision to secure our shared assets and reputation. I had made a great deal of money off telling his stories while he was away, and he was now reaping the benefits as well. We shared the rent, we shared the furniture, so we might as well share the risk. It made perfect sense for us to tie it up legally, and I supposed getting married was the most expedient way.

I didn't need to admit I had blacked out. That was an embarrassing and unnecessary detail.

I finished my breakfast and left Holmes the portion I'd expect him to eat after a successful case, but when I went over to shake him again I was met with his ashen complexion and his glassy stare.

"You don't look very well," I said.

"By Jove," he croaked, "I knew there was a reason you had a medical certificate."

"Charming," said I. "I'm sure you don't mean it."

"No, there really _is_ a reason."

I ignored him. "The train to London leaves in forty minutes."

The little bit of color in his face drained away. I watched his throat constrict.

"We'll go home this afternoon, perhaps," I said.

He put his face down again, his whole body going limp.

I pushed myself to my feet again and fetched another water glass and the empty china wash basin from the dressing table. When he heard them clank on the floor beneath him, he reached out and grabbed whatever he could of me–my elbow–and squeezed it in gratitude. "God bless you, Doctor Watson," he said into the pillow.

"I'm going to go for a walk," I said.

He waved me away. I left him prone on the bed we'd shared–as innocently as two bachelors could, though in all particulars neither of us were a bachelor any longer–and went downstairs.


	2. SH 22nd April, 1896

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read chapter 1 before May 30th, 2018, I recommend rereading it now because it has been totally rewritten. xx

After Watson left, I couldn't say how long I slept, exactly. I drifted in and out of an aching, dehydrated daze, sometimes unconscious, sometimes in skull-pounding agony. I managed not to vomit, despite the Doctor's preparations for an inevitability, and instead kept down a little of the water he had poured for me. When I finally awoke, aching and unsteady but undeniably alive, my watch had stopped and the sun was almost at its zenith.

We couldn't do that again, I thought, turning over in the bed. We were getting too old. I was lucky we both weren't in a ditch somewhere. Then I picked up my arm off my face and stared at the ring on my finger. We'd done something rather more outrageous than fall in a ditch.

The night was a blur, but I could catch snippets of it. Watson and I finishing a bottle of wine; Watson waxing poetic on the way married people always seem to know where the other one is; climbing over the wall into the cemetery to lounge among the headstones and drink from Watson's flask.

I remember being jealous that Watson thought so highly of being married. I remember remarking that we were practically married ourselves.

Then, I could picture Watson talking earnestly with the vicar (why he was in the nave at that hour and not at home I couldn't remember), and I could hear him, somewhat disconnected, convincing the man to wed us.

"Sherlock is very private, you see," Watson's voice said in my head. "We've wanted to be married for _ages_ , but he can't stand the idea of doing it in town where everyone knows us. We're too well-known, you see, to do it without it becoming a spectacle."

He reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it firmly and smiling at me over his shoulder. 

"I love this man, vicar. I want to honor him with a commitment."

I stared at my hands some more. Watson said he loved me.

The trouble with it was that I had been in love with John Watson since 1881. I didn't admit it to myself until the summer of 1883, but by then I was in so deep there was no turning back. Having never been in love before, understanding the concept didn't help me act on it, and anyway he had never expressed any interest in men. He was a great appreciator of women, almost to an insulting degree, and there was nothing on earth that would make me risk his scorn by admitting my feelings to him. I was convinced he would shun me.

My fears were all realized in 1888, when the case that would alter the course of my career introduced him to the late Mary Watson née Morstan. She was a lovely young woman, and in another circumstance I could perhaps have admired her, but she caught Watson's eye and I knew immediately that this was something different.

I told myself I was grateful enough to have his continued friendship, but that marriage marked the beginning of a spiral that took me deep into the criminal underground of London in pursuit of something that made me feel as strongly as he did. Discovering Professor Moriarty at the center of it was a lucky break. My brother warned me against him, told me there were other avenues available, but I let Moriarty string me along. I expected our final contest to end in both our deaths. That I lived and he was killed added insult to injury. That Watson was on his way back to my rescue couldn't be borne. 

I took a coward's way out and escaped my old life, determined to wander the world until I had eroded everything that made me weak and soft and in love with him. Then came the news, through channels my brother had insisted upon, that his wife had died. All of the work I'd done unraveled, and I turned for home immediately. I couldn't let him be alone.

Things in England had changed while I'd been away. The laws governing the relations between men had been relaxed; some had been abolished altogether. I'd never expected such a development, nor, it seemed, had John Watson. He'd been publishing his stories about our cases together in my absence, never anticipating that I might read them. It was these that made me begin to change my mind.

Against his better judgment, Watson took me back. He agreed to move back to Baker Street, and went so far as to sell his practice.

Now convinced there was hope for me, I still didn't know how to proceed. He was grieving the loss of his wife, and at the same time admitted to being unsettled by my return. We fought; he was more raw than I'd seen him before. He almost moved out again, but I begged him to stay. I imagine that was the first time I let him see how much I needed him in my life.

Then that foppish Oscar Wilde got caught up in the strange debacle with his lover and his lover's father, and all at once sodomy was legal and, not only that, apparently encouraged.

The year 1895 will stand out in our glorious century as the year everything changed.

And _still_ I couldn't act. How could I, after all this time, put my emotion into words? Describe how I felt, or what he meant to me? After what I'd done? After everything we'd been through? It was cruel to ask him to give me more of himself than he already did, every day.

Until, apparently, I did ask. It only took three bottles of Chateau Lefite, a pint of good doctor's brandy, and a country cemetery. I'd been carrying those rings for years. That his fit him was a miracle.

I didn't exactly remember what I'd told him, or how much, of my feelings for him, but apparently it had been enough. He'd admitted the sentiment was mutual, and we'd done something about it.

By Jove, I'd done it.

My head hurt too much to really celebrate my own achievement, so I turned over again onto my stomach and went back to sleep.

When I woke again, the empty basin beneath the corner of the bed had been removed, and my glass of water had been refreshed. Watson had come back to check on me, bless him. I felt better, my stomach no longer insisting on turning itself inside out, and my vision almost normal. I managed to get out of bed, dress myself decently, and wash my face. Shaving was out of the question. I stared for a long minute at my own bleary face in the looking glass, and then decided nothing mattered. I had married John Watson.

He was in the pub downstairs, eating a sandwich and reading a broadsheet. I fully intended to walk up to him, purr, "Hello, husband," and kiss him then and there in front of everyone.

My nerve failed me immediately, with just the thought of strange eyes upon us, and so I slouched up silently and put my hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me, a little ragged around the edges himself, but his eyes were bright and clear, the North-Sea blue I adored.

"Holmes!" he said, putting down the paper and pushing out the other chair with his foot. "How are you feeling?"

"Tolerable," I replied, cursing my cowardice and sinking down into the chair. My own name jumped out at me from the newspaper. "What are they saying about us?" I asked, indicating it. I took the other half of his sandwich from his plate when he looked away.

"Oh, someone had time to write about the case already," he said. He pushed it my way and sat back to watch as I read the piece.

_THE REVEREND FREDERICK A. JENNINGS officiated over the wedding of DR JOHN H. WATSON and MR SHERLOCK S. HOLMES of London, who so recently and valiantly rescued our own SIR GEORGE DUNCAN of Ferrymore Hall. Sir George was first reported missing by his wife Lady Duncan on the afternoon of the seventeenth of this month, after she did not meet him halfway through his habitual morning ride. The two were accustomed to riding together in the mornings. Suspecting an accident, she at once summoned the local constabulary to search for Sir George. The local force, upon finding no more suggestion of his whereabouts than a few smeared hoof-prints in the dirt, suggested that there might be foul play at hand. Lady Duncan immediately requested the assistance of Mr Holmes from London._

_Mr Holmes, a renowned private consulting detective, was accompanied by his partner of fifteen years, Dr Watson. The two worked tirelessly for three days in pursuit of the truth of the whereabouts of Sir George. Sir George was eventually discovered alive in an ancient barrow ten miles from the village of Ferrymore Bridge, the victim of cruel mischief._

That was an understatement. He'd been buried alive.

_The gentlemen from London celebrated their success by tying the knot at twenty past nine last night in the presence of six witnesses. Congratulations may be sent to 221B, Baker Street, London W1._

Watson was still watching me when I looked back up, a smirk on his face. "They're figured us out," he said.

I felt myself blushing and finished the sandwich to cover it up. "I suppose we weren't as secretive as we wanted to be."

Something in his face changed very subtly, something about his eyebrows twitched, and he said, "I suppose not," almost as if he didn't believe me. He smiled, though, and said, "The next train as it twenty past three. Do you think you could stand it?"

"I do want to go home," I said, "but–"

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," a voice said behind me, and I twisted to look. It was Henry D'Arcy, the chief of the Ferrymore Bridge constabulary.

"Mr D'Arcy," said I, reaching up to shake his hand. "How are you, my good fellow?"

D'Arcy squeezed my hand and then reached over me for Watson's. "Quite well, quite well," said he. He was a short, robust chap with a broad face, bushy moustache, and a keen look in his eye. He stood over us with his thumbs hooked in his belt. "We have extracted a confession from our man," he said.

"Excellent news," I said, sitting back. I'd forgotten that he'd still been at work while we had been carousing. I was usually long gone by the time the local force had their way with the culprit.

"You were right in every particular, Mr Holmes," D'Arcy went on, "save one."

I raised an eyebrow. 

"The cache was found in a barn in Henborough, twenty miles north of here."

I didn't care where the cache had been found. The motivation of the criminals to torture and starve Sir George helped in the case, but I had rescued the man and that's what I had been brought in to do. "How very interesting," I said. "I suppose there's always something, eh Watson?"

Watson shrugged mutely.

D'Arcy laughed and said, "Well, it doesn't change the fact that he's guilty, so I suppose we can forgive you this lapse, Mr Holmes."

I hated this level of familiarity from men I'd only worked with once. Lestrade could get away with it because he was my friend and a regular visitor to the consulting rooms at Baker Street, but I had just met this constable.

D'Arcy seemed to sense a certain coolness of my regard, for he stepped back and said, "Well, at any rate, gentlemen, I wanted to give you my thanks again on behalf of the village. I don't think we'd have brought you in if not for Lady Duncan–"

"I'm certain not," Watson muttered.

"And you've saved a man's life and helped remove a criminal from our midst, so we're all very grateful."

"It was our pleasure," I said.

That made D'Arcy smile again, and he said, "I imagine it was," with a significant look at my left hand, which still lay on the table. The ring glinted.

I put my hand away beneath the table, but at the same moment Watson reached over and took my right hand in his. He gazed at me sweetly and said, "It certainly was," in a gentle voice. I couldn't quite tell if he was doing it for my sake or for D'Arcy's.

Either way, it made D'Arcy back down. He cleared his throat and said, "I'd best be getting back to the station," although a quick glance around the pub indicated he'd come in for lunch with a few of the official force. "Good afternoon to you both."

He went off, and Watson let go of my hand. I missed it at once. He began tearing the article about us out of the broadsheet, muttering about just keeping it for posterity. Then he checked his watch. Mine was still stopped, I realized. I didn't feel like rewinding it just yet.

"Shall we go home?" Watson asked.

"Yes, please," said I.


	3. JHW, 22nd & 23rd April, 1896

We had a first-class carriage to ourselves on the way home, but rather than sit across from me as he usually did, Holmes sat beside me. He made no mention of this change in behavior, nor did he seem self-conscious about it at all. He simply settled in, his elbow and thigh against mine, and read the afternoon paper he'd picked up in the station. As we rattled along in relative silence, these points of contact between us made it impossible for me to focus on the book I'd packed in my valise. I put it away and took up staring out the window instead, watching the landscape rumble by.

Eventually, somewhere between Northampton and Milton Keynes, Holmes folded up the paper, tossed it onto the still-unoccupied seat across from us, and put his head down upon my shoulder. He dozed like that until we re-entered the boundaries of the city, and I sat as still as I could lest he slip off or pull away. I didn't know what else to do.

Word of our nuptials had preceded us to London. Mrs Hudson embraced us both at the door, scolding us for not giving her any warning, and led us upstairs to a flat bursting with congratulatory bouquets and telegrams. There was hardly any room to have supper, so full were the horizontal surfaces. Holmes picked at his meal, blaming his delicate constitution for his lack of appetite. I was certain he'd drunk more with less effect in the past, but I didn't press the matter. He was quiet, and after the meal had been taken away he wandered around the room, looking at the correspondence and smoking his cherrywood pipe. Once in a while he would stop and read one aloud to me. 

Most of them were from strangers, people who must have read about us, and then this, in the press. A few of them were from old clients, sending good wishes to a man who had saved their life, or career, or reputation. A particularly ostentatious white and pink arrangement was from Holmes's brother, but the note only said _Congratulations_. For some reason, I had expected more from Mycroft.

Holmes snorted at it. "Smug git," he muttered, and moved the bouquet to the top of his desk where it obscured most of the old bullet-holes he'd pocked the plaster with. The spot gave the bouquet pride of place in the room, above all the others, and I could see it in the mirror over the mantle from my chair by the fire.

Nine o'clock struck, and I stood up from my chair, intending to go to bed. Holmes looked up from his desk, where he'd started fiddling with the project he'd abandoned when we'd left for Ferrymore Bridge. We stared at each other a moment.

Holmes said, "Goodnight, my dear. We can discuss it in the morning."

 _My dear…?_ He always followed it up with "doctor" or "fellow"; it was never such pure, distilled affection. "Discuss what?" I asked.

His smile creased the corners of his eyes, and I saw in the gaslight that he was blushing. "The arrangements of our new life. I'm sure it won't change very much, but we can talk about it tomorrow." He pushed his chair away from the desk and crossed the room to me.

"Being married to you today," said I, "feels exactly the same as _not_ being married to you did the day before yesterday."

Holmes took my hands in his. I stood very still, not certain what was coming next. Holmes is several inches taller than I am, and he had never been shy about inserting himself into my personal space. I looked up into his face, my heart thumping in my chest. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss me.

Instead he squeezed my fingers and then embraced me, his wiry arms wrapped around my shoulders. He said, "Thank you," into my ear, and let go. I blinked at him, confused.

"You're welcome," I said, unsure what favor I had granted.

He smiled. "Sleep well," he said, somewhat self-consciously, and went back to his table.

"Good night," I replied, and took myself away upstairs.

I reasoned away his gratitude and embrace as I got ready for bed. We had secured our future together, and there was nothing more reassuring than knowing your assets and interests were protected by someone you trusted. I didn't have any family left, and I loathed the idea of my sudden death resulting in my books and papers ending up in the hands of someone who didn't care about them. Holmes had his brother, but he'd expressed to me more than once that he dreaded the thought of his brother dealing with his estate and his reputation. It was logical that we give one another the benefit of it.

I wished I could remember the night before better. If I wracked my brain, I could come up with disjointed images: being at the church, hand-in-hand; being at the inn, celebrating; being arm-in-arm somewhere outside, laughing; hauling a very drunk London detective up the stairs to our double-bedded room. 

Staring at the ceiling of my Baker Street bedroom, I wondered suddenly, had we kissed after the ceremony? If something like _that_ had happened, I ought to remember, but I couldn't. 

I turned over onto my side and punched my pillow a few times. It didn't help. 

I thought about my first wedding: the details were still sharp and clear in my mind. I pictured Mary's shy smile as our eyes met at either end of the aisle; I could almost smell her perfume as I approached; I remembered the lace on the sleeves of her dress and the little silk flowers on the gossamer veil that covered her hair. She'd been the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen on that day. After she'd died I'd kept that memory locked up tight, but it wasn't as painful as I'd expected to take it out again and examine it. It was a shame my second wedding couldn't even be pieced together enough to form a coherent whole.

Downstairs, Holmes had picked up his violin and was playing soft warm-up scales. As I listened and drifted, he began playing a Bach Air that I recognized. It was one of my favorites. If this was a change due to our matrimony, that he would refrain from his strange experimental non-music, I was not disappointed.

By the time I made it downstairs the next morning, Holmes was washed and shaved and looking considerably healthier. The flowers had been redistributed throughout the room and out into the hallway, giving us a little more space to eat breakfast. I sat down across from Holmes, where he was reading the newspaper, and he looked up with a small frown on his face. I raised an eyebrow.

"Something the matter?" I asked.

Holmes snapped the paper up into shape again, hiding his face, and said, "Nothing at all."

I served myself from the dishes between us, feeling strangely disappointed. "Anything interesting in there?" I tried.

"A suggestion of something curious," said he, "but it might be very straightforward. I don't know–"

There was a tug on the bell downstairs, and Holmes let the top half of the broadsheet fall to beam at me.

"Perhaps I do know," he amended.

Inspector Lestrade was shown up to the sitting room. Holmes got up to shake his hand, made apologies for me still being halfway through my breakfast, and offered the Inspector a cup of coffee.

Lestrade accepted. "I'm sorry to bother you gentlemen so soon after your…" he said, and paused. He looked around the room at the floral arrangements, and then at us. I'd slept in my wedding ring, and Holmes was wearing his, I realized. Lestrade took a careful sip of hot coffee and said, "Holiday," with decisiveness. "But we've got a real corker down in Deptford and could use your eyes, Mr Holmes."

Holmes grinned and lit his pipe. "The 'gruesome scene not fit for civilized eyes'?" he asked.

"The very one, I'm afraid."

"Sit down and tell me more," Holmes said. "Dr Watson will make himself available in a few minutes."

I finished my breakfast while Lestrade gave us some more particulars, although eating during his story was not one of the better decisions I've ever made. Holmes asked a few more questions while I finished my toilet, and then we were climbing into a four-wheeler and making our way across the river. Lestrade and I were silent while Holmes gazed out the window, deep in thought. The clear weather had followed us back to the city, and the sun shone in the sky, promising the return of the summer warmth. I had started to dream of staying out in the country; the heat of summer brought the pungent aroma of London up from the depths of the Thames, and the smog would be hanging in the air again soon. I thought about Ferrymore Bridge and its clean air, its light skies, and the sinister opinion Holmes had of the countryside. Perhaps he'd take convincing to move out of London with me. Perhaps since we were married now, the convincing wouldn't be so arduous.

We pulled up at a warehouse that was swarming with police, and Holmes at once started in on scolding Lestrade for allowing the place to be trampled by so many boots. He didn't wait for a rejoinder and was out of the cab the moment it stopped. The Inspector and I followed at a respectful distance as Holmes hurried up and down the muddy gravel yard, looking for information and muttering to himself.

"I couldn't secure the scene," Lestrade told me. "I was the third Inspector called here. It's a right sight inside." He gave a dramatic little shiver, and I felt a tingle of fear at what we might be about to encounter even as my heart began to pound with excitement. "Gruesome" wasn't Holmes's favorite type of crime, because he always said the stranger the situation the more clear-cut the solution, but it did make for good entertainment literature. Not that I should be thinking of my publications at a time like this.

Holmes's voice rang across the yard. "Watson!"

I went to join him. 

He pointed down at the ground. "What do you see?"

"Nothing, Holmes," said I. "But surely you see something."

"I don't," he said softly. "There's nothing here to look at. I haven't made an official study of all the boot prints of all the constables, but I'm familiar with an awful lot of them, and that's all I see here. There's no rhyme or reason to the movement; everyone is just running about, back and forth. There's no pattern, no focal point."

I 'hmm'ed thoughtfully, although I had nothing to offer. Holmes, knowing that, moved on. He kept pausing, frowning, and looking around at the constables that still moved in and out of the warehouse. The door hadn't been propped open, and instead each person had to open and close it himself. People were opening the door as little as possible. As I stood and watched Holmes for a few minutes, I noticed that the crowd was thinning: more people going in, fewer coming out. Something wasn't sitting right. Holmes met my gaze, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

"We'd better go in," he said. His expression was stoic: his jaw tight and his head held high. I don't know what he expected to find; I certainly didn't know what to expect.


	4. SH, 23rd April 1896

Lestrade had described an elaborate scene of ritual murder, bloodletting, and satanic staging complete with animal bones, but he had not truly prepared us for what greeted us as we stepped through the doors.

There were no hanged men, no pools of blood, no mysterious writing on the walls or cultish paraphernalia littering the floor. Instead, a giant table was set up in the middle of the bare room under a hand-painted banner that read _CONGRATULATIONS AND BEST WISHES_ , and three dozen Scotland Yard employees, from the clerks to the Inspectors, were waiting for us with ridiculous grins on their faces.

"Surprise!" they all shouted, more or less in unison, with Lestrade and the rest of the constables who had been outside joining in from behind us.

I nearly had a heart attack. "Bloody hell," I whispered. Watson's eyes were huge.

Lestrade clapped us both on the shoulders hard. "My dear Mr Holmes, Doctor, welcome to your stag party."

"It's ten in the morning!" Watson protested.

"Well, we won't let it get completely out of hand," Lestrade said, "but you did us all a disservice sneaking off like that. Perhaps it is your _un-_ stag party."

"Lestrade," I began, on the verge of rebuking him for spinning such a yarn about an interesting case (although with that much peculiarity I would have solved it in less than a week), but then I stopped myself. I looked at Lestrade, with his narrow face beaming (he thought this was the best idea he'd had all week), and at the already-raucous crowd gathered around the table (they'd been here setting up at least an hour already), and at Watson, who was blushing (amused, pleased). "Thank you," I said instead.

Lestrade laughed and ushered us towards the table. "Well, it wasn't me that organized it, actually," said he. "That was young Hopkins. He heard yesterday that you'd gone and done it, _eloped_ I daresay, and said, 'we absolutely must give them a party'."

"It's very kind," Watson said, and as Stanley Hopkins came up on our other side, "very kind indeed." He was looking embarrassed, but I could tell he was pleased.

Hopkins shook both our hands with enthusiasm. "You were the ones who gave us the real surprise," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "Who would have thought, after all this time, Doctor, that you'd go and make an honest man of Mr Holmes."

Watson and I looked at one another in surprise, and then he reached across Lestrade and slipped his warm hand into mine. "Who indeed?" he asked, gazing into my eyes.

I felt my face heat. What might Hopkins think if I admitted it had been my idea all along? If any of them knew I'd been the one quietly hoping for years for an opportunity to tell Watson what I really thought of him? It was shocking to think they'd just been waiting for this to happen. These men, who only a few years ago would have gleefully raided a bath house, or ruined a peer for his proclivities. I wondered how many among them planned to be in my shoes someday: married to their oldest friend.

I squeezed back and saw his eyes flash with surprise. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile, and desire flared in my chest. I had kissed that mouth only two nights ago. We hadn't discussed how we'd act in public, regarding our impulse decision. Since yesterday Watson had barely touched me, save the hug I'd initiated, and I hadn't expected him to warm up to the idea so quickly. There was a tenderness in his gaze that made my skin tingle.

"Well," said I, and as I said it I realized I was babbling, "you know, we all do strange things sometimes."

The party was tolerable, but I always felt that way about gatherings this size. It would have been more interesting if Watson and I were not the center of attention, or if there were more strangers to observe in attendance, but it was all our acquaintances and friends and there were only a few new points of interest about anyone to pick up on. There wasn't even a crime scene to investigate. I stuck close to Watson as we were moved around the room and congratulated, and held a drink in my hand without drinking it. Occasionally Watson would find my elbow and give it a little squeeze. I suppose he thought I needed some reassurance, or perhaps it was he who needed it.

We got separated at some point, and I found myself freed from marriage talk when a young constable, younger even than Hopkins, asked me to elaborate on something I'd written about finger prints as a means of identification. We spent a few minutes inspecting our finger-ends under my pocket lens as I described what I'd read about Herschel's fingerprint collection and Dr. Fauld's classification system. I didn't expect the British police to pick up the identification procedure quite yet, so fixated were they on other anatomical measurements, but I took pleasure in this young man's interest in the topic. Scotland Yard can be taught new tricks, I thought.

When I looked up again, Watson and Inspector Lestrade were deep in conversation on the other side of the table. Watson's brow was furrowed, and I couldn't tell if it was in thought or in distress. Better to find out than guess. I excused myself from the young constable and went to join them, insinuating myself into the conversation by taking Watson's arm.

"Are you all right?" I murmured.

"Of course," said he, clearing his throat. "Lestrade was just asking which of us proposed."

"Watson, of course," I lied. "He is the romantic, you know, and I am… oblivious to the softer emotions."

Watson smiled at me and patted my hand in the crook of his elbow. He always was good at taking the blame for things I had done impulsively. It tended to work out.

"And he's been married before," I went on, "so he knows how it's all supposed to work."

"He did say," Lestrade agreed with a sly smile in my direction. "Well, gentlemen, we're all very pleased for you; it was high time you made it official."

"Er," said Watson, "thank you. Was it, indeed?"

"High time," Lestrade repeated, nodding to himself. "The two of you have been… why it's been ages in the making. How long have you known one another?"

We looked at each other, each doing our own set of maths. "Fourteen?" "Fifteen years?"

Lestrade looked smug. "There you go, then. Inevitable. Bit of a detour in the middle, I'd say."

"Now, look here," Watson said, immediately defensive, "my wife and I were really very–"

"No, no," Lestrade interrupted, his eyes wide, holding up a hand to deflect the indignation. "I don't mean _that_ , I'm sure your– no, I mean, the time that… that bit where Mr Holmes was… away."

We stood uncomfortably for a moment. Watson was rigid beside me. "I suppose you could call that a detour," I said finally.

When I'd returned from abroad, and when he'd acquiesced to stay at Baker Street, we'd agreed my departure in Switzerland had been the right thing to do. I knew he'd agreed just to stop our fighting about it. I regretted leaving him behind; I wasn't sure I'd ever said as much to him. I didn't want to admit he was right or face his anger again. After he was done being relieved to see me, he'd been _so_ angry. Perhaps I deserved to awaken it again, now that I'd done _this_. We probably ought to talk it through again. God, but I didn't want to.

Watson cleared his throat. "I say," said he, turning to me, "what time is our reservation?"

"Res—? Oh!" He was giving me a significant look. I drew out my pocket watch. "Why, noon, my dear boy."

"Reservation?" Lestrade asked. 

"I was prepared to let it slide, as you'd promised us 'a real corker'," I said, "but we have a reservation for lunch."

We didn't have a reservation anywhere. We'd had no plans at all for the day, although I'd considered cleaning up some of the droopier floral arrangements. Watson, however, was clearly ready to leave. 

"Thank you for the excellent party," he said to Lestrade.

"Yes, thank you," I echoed.

Lestrade gathered us into a dual hug, putting his face between ours and squeezing one shoulder each. "You're welcome," he said. "From all of us. Congratulations."

We got out of the party in less than ten minutes, but we had to walk another ten to find a main road with enough available cabs to get us back to our side of the city. When we finally caught a hansom, I directed the driver towards Mancini's and caught my eye as we got in.

"We don't have to—" Watson began.

"We won't need a reservation," I said, sitting back in the seat, "and we might as well eat after all that nonsense."

"You didn't have anything to drink," he said.

"Neither did you."

His body was warm beside mine in the seat, and I was reminded of the sensation of sharing a bed with him. I hadn't kissed him since we were married, and I itched to do it again. _Not in public,_ I told myself. _Wait._ The outsides of our thighs were pressed together, although I seemed to remember that we usually managed to leave space between us. I didn't move away; neither did he. When we arrived at the restaurant, he opened the apron and got out, leaving a vacuum of cold air in his wake. Then, to my surprise, he offered me his hand as I stepped down. I took it, pressing our palms together, and his mouth twitched in a stifled smile. We were slow to let go. He held the door for me going into the restaurant, and when the host saw us we were whisked away to a table by the window, ahead of the queue.

"There, you see?" I said, taking my coat off my shoulders. "I knew we wouldn't have to wait. I hope you're hungry." Our coats disappeared, and I pulled Watson's chair out for him.

He raised an eyebrow at me, which made me blush, but he sat down anyway.

"Apologies," I said, seating myself across from him.

"You don't have to apologize."

"I'm treating you like a woman."

"Well," said he, unfolding his napkin, "you're treating me the way you might treat a wife, which isn't exactly necessary."

I looked down at my plate, embarrassed.

"But I am your husband now, so the courtesy is… not unwelcome."

I wanted to kiss him even more now, damn him. I swallowed hard.

The waiter arrived with our usual wine before I could reply, and we sat in silence as it was poured. When he was gone, I took up the glass and sipped, savoring it, buying myself some time and composure. Watson watched me with more than his usual attention.

"Watson," I said, putting the glass down again.

"Do you think," he interrupted, "that it might be appropriate to call me John? Give that we are—?"

I felt like I'd been struck. My heart thumped in my chest. _Dreams do come true_ , I thought. "That… yes, it might." I paused. "I suppose you ought to call me Sherlock."

"If you'd like me to," he said.

"Only my brother calls me that."

"If you'd prefer I didn't…"

"No, I— maybe just at home."

He smiled slowly. "I wonder how married we ought to act in public," said he.

 _Act?_ I thought, but he went on.

"I don't mind people knowing; I get the impression everyone's been waiting on us to do something like this, and your reputation protects you from too much scrutiny."

"Our reputation," I said.

He laughed. "Holmes, don't be ridiculous. I only follow along behind you, in wide-eyed wonder at your magnificence, scribbling as fast as I can."

"Your scribbling has led to my reputation, and you know it," I said. "All that work you did while–" I stopped, unwilling to remind him of Switzerland again so soon. "Anyway, it's not just me that people expect to see. Remember that butler who collapsed on the hearth rug? 'Dr Watson, you have to help me?'"

Watson was blushing. "Perhaps you're right."

"I am," I said, and reached for his hand. His ring was warm on his finger. I wanted to tell him how grateful I was that he'd agreed to have me, even though I'd done no courting at all. I wanted to express my affection for him and his generous, self-deprecating soul, but I'd never been good with words of that variety. It was a marvel I'd given him enough to go on in the first place.


	5. JHW, 1st May, 1896

I hadn't expected things to change, now that we were married. It was a marriage of convenience, and yet everything we did together took on a new meaning, even (especially) the mundane things. Sitting with him over breakfast meant I was sitting with my husband, not only my very good friend and colleague. Arguing with him over the results of some scientific experiment that was outlined in the _Lancet_ was at turns playful and electric. Smoking in the evening on either side of the fire had a layer of intimacy it hadn't before. 

Perhaps the intimacy had always been there, only I had never noticed it. Nothing felt different, I told myself, except that _everything_ felt different. Holmes looked at me differently: although I couldn't identify what was different about it. He looked fond, and sly, and sometimes a little disappointed. Perhaps he always looked at me like that.

When we were out in public, he put his arm through mine as he always did, but he held onto my elbow a little tighter, and his ring kept catching my eye. Lestrade brought us a new case, swearing up and down it wasn't another surprise party, and as we looked over the scene Holmes put his hand on my shoulder to draw my attention. I felt the touch through my coat and jacket to my skin. Later that same afternoon, he laced his fingers with mine without looking, which was certainly something he'd never done before.

Against my best intentions, I loved it. I had no business encouraging this kind of physical affection, except that it was a convincing show of matrimony. People might believe we had married for the legal protections of our assets, but they certainly wouldn't buy that was the _only_ reason, nor would they respect the choice. Marriage was for lovers. All the people who had fought long and hard in the courts would have disdained us for taking advantage of the institution.

Holmes and I would have to be a convincing couple, even more so than we were as a bachelor pair. 

I had long suspected Holmes of having leanings in that particular direction. He had never had an interest in women, beyond his professional interest in their personal and mysterious affairs, and often I found him confused and aloof in their presence. He was not unkind or dismissive, he clearly saw women as important and independent creatures, but the way he had lived his life had not intentionally included them.

His preferences did not shock or offend me; I had been acquainted with men of his ilk my whole life. I had never considered such a leaning for myself, because I had always desired women. Certainly, there had been men in my youth who I had admired, but it had been aesthetic only, or certain personalities I was drawn to: a brilliant fellow medical student at University; a clever major in my regiment; a consulting detective, the only one in the world. As we became acquainted with one another in the guise of "husband" I began to question that admiration.

I concluded that Holmes and I must have kissed at our ceremony, and I regretted not remembering it. I found myself wishing to repeat the night so that I could experience it, and that moment in particular. I felt shy about the desire, but only because it was Holmes, whom I'd known so long, not because he was a man. Perhaps I was not as straight-laced as I had imagined.

I found myself fixated upon the notion. I began to watch him when he wasn't looking, studying his face, his mouth in particular. I looked for signs that he might be open to the suggestion that we reenact our wedding night, or even improvise upon it. Just because I suspected him of having an invert's soul didn't mean he would by necessity be attracted to _me_. That was rather self-centered to assume.

The matter came to a head approximately a week after our nuptials, through no fault of my own. Holmes and I were out late, investigating the matter of the drunken diplomat (which I will have to remember to write up another time), and got caught up in a bit of a scuffle outside a gentleman's club neither of us belonged to. Holmes and I had had one drink each– perhaps we should have learned– but it had been strategic. We were thrown out of the club for asking too many invasive questions, and then followed by the men about whom we'd been inquiring. A fist-fight ensued; Holmes had his eye blacked and I took a strong blow to the jaw that rattled my teeth in my head. We gave back as good as we received, but we were interrupted by the shrill whistles of the police constables who had been summoned.

Rather than stay and plead our story, Holmes grabbed me by the hand and took off; we ran for it like common street thugs.

We were in Pall Mall, so we ran north towards Oxford Street, getting ourselves intentionally lost in the warren of Soho. Holmes pulled me this way and that, through passageways and around corners, and finally we ducked into a doorway. Holmes pinned me there with his body. He looked over my shoulder, but all I could focus on was the hot length of his body and the heave of his chest against mine as he caught his breath. His hands were on my arms, holding me against the brick. All at once, I was dizzy with wanting.

Our tail ran past and stopped briefly at the end of the street, looking back and forth, and then went left. We listened to his footsteps tapping away into the distance. Holmes looked up at me, grinning, and pulled me free of the doorway again. He let go, leaving me reeling, and ran down to the end of the street. Satisfied, he came back, and caught me once more by my arms.

"There, Watson!" he crowed, turning me in a big half-circle, and then he pulled me to him and kissed me.

I grabbed two handfuls of Holmes's jacket under his coat, securing him against me, and kissed him back. He tasted like I'd imagined, and so much better than that. His mouth was warm and clever, his tongue quick, and his hands roamed up and down my arms and chest. I could feel the blood pounding its way around my body, heating me up all over.

This was no marriage of convenience, I thought. Not anymore.

Holmes broke the kiss abruptly and said, "Let's go home."

"Holmes," I said.

He grinned, and kissed me again.

My mouth still hurt from being punched, but I could have devoured Holmes on the spot. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled us even closer together, if such a thing were possible. He was hard in his trousers, and much the same could have been said for me. He groaned into my mouth, and pulled back again to run his hands through my hair and say, "I was starting to think I'd got the wrong impression."

I blinked at him.

"Come on." He grabbed my hands again and pulled me the opposite way down the street. We emerged onto Oxford Street and managed to flag down a cab, despite the hour. It was a closed four-wheeler, and as we got in Holmes pushed me into the corner of the seat and climbed into my lap.

"Good lord," I began, my arms full of lanky, persistent detective, but he cut me off with another kiss that lit up my very soul. This was what I had wanted; why was I now being slowly filled with dread?

Holmes didn't do anything so crass as begin to undress me in the cab, but his hands certainly wandered boldly, making their way beneath my coat. He had his legs spread wide on either side of my hips, and it was the closest I'd been to another person in a very long time. My body was being quickly convinced this was a good idea, even as my mind rebelled.

I stopped his next advance with a hand on his chest.

"What did you mean?"

He swallowed and gazed at me in the dark. "Mean?"

"About getting the wrong impression?"

Holmes laughed. "Why, John, you haven't kissed me like that since our wedding night; I was starting to worry."

So we _had_ kissed after the ceremony. "Worry about what?" I demanded.

"Worry that you'd forgotten," he teased.

It was like a shock of cold water. I started to sit up, but his weight kept me pinned.

"Holmes, I– I have an admission to make." I should have told him a week ago. There would never have been a good time to do it.

"What is it?" He looked down into my face. I could feel his exhale on my cheek and smell the liquor on his breath.

"I can't remember… that night."

He sat back abruptly. "What?"

"I said I can't remember the night we got–"

He climbed off and sat across from me in the cab. I could hardly see him.

"Can't remember?" he asked, adjusting his collar and, with a self-consciousness that made me blush, the distorted line of his trousers. "How much can't you remember?"

"Any of it." I felt sick.

" _Any_ –? Good lord, Watson. And you didn't think I ought to know that, before I– by Jove, I've just assaulted you." He passed a hand over his face.

"No," I said quickly, "no, you didn't do _that_. I had to stop you before– before I led you astray."

We stared at one another, all ardor dissolved. I still wanted him madly, but I couldn't act on it with the misunderstanding hanging between us.

The rest of the ride back to Baker Street was done in silence. Holmes and I alternately stared at one another and looked away, unable to maintain eye-contact but unable to resist seeking each other out. The cab coming to a halt outside our dwelling was a boon, and I jumped out first. Holmes ignored my outstretched hand and stepped onto the pavement, tossing a coin up at the driver.

We went inside.

Holmes lit the lamps, all of them, and fished a cigarette out of the slipper on the mantle. He offered me one, but I declined. Holmes lit his and began to pace back and forth across the hearth, smoking furiously. Cigarettes were for his nerves.

"Holmes," I said, "please."

"How can you not remember any of it?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid I was… very drunk."

"Well, so was I, but at least I had the decency to hang onto my memories!"

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't seem to have any control over the matter."

"So you don't remember what I said to you?" He stopped pacing at the window and turned around to face me. He was very pale.

"No," I admitted.

"And you don't remember anything you said to me?"

"I do not."

"You don't know why we got married."

"When I woke up, I thought we'd been very clever."

"Clever, how?"

"Holmes, please sit down."

"I thought you were going to call me 'Sherlock' at home."

"Sherlock, _please_. Don't be upset!"

"Upset!" Holmes threw his hands in the air. "I've been living a lie!"

"It's only been ten days," I protested.

"I promised to be patient," he said. "You told me off for not courting you, for springing it on you, and now you don't even remember–" He cut himself off, covering his mouth with one hand as if to keep the words from coming out.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Sooner would probably have been better," said he.

"Oh, you'd have liked me to wake up and ask, 'By Jove, Holmes, what on earth happened last night?'"

"Yes!" he shouted. "At least then I could have–"

"What?" I demanded. "Lied to cover your mistake?"

"It wasn't a mistake," Holmes said firmly, pointing at me with his cigarette.

"Well for heaven's sake, then, tell me what happened."


	6. SH, 21st April, 1896

"To Sir George," I said, touching my glass to Watson's.

"Sir George," he agreed.

We both drank deeply.

"And Lady Duncan," he said, "for her quick thinking."

"Lady Duncan!" I echoed, and we drank again. The wine was a medium-bodied dry red, with a bouquet of plum and chocolate, and was certainly being wasted on us at this point.

We put the glasses down on the table at the same time, and the innkeeper appeared to refill them from the bottle on our table. It only had a splash left in the bottom, which Watson promptly drank without waiting for me, and the innkeeper said, "Ah, just a moment, I'm sure I have one more of these."

He disappeared, and I pushed my plate away from me. "By Jove, they must really love the Duncans," I said. "Isn't that refreshing?"

"Sorry?" Watson asked.

"I said, isn't that refreshing, that they seem to love their local landowner?"

"Some people do take care of their holdings," Watson said. "The Duncans happen to strike me as a particularly devoted couple."

"Well, I think it's refreshing," I said again.

"Quite so," Watson agreed.

The inn around us was noisy, and we didn't hear the innkeeper come back until he was right beside us again with a new bottle of Chateau Lafite. Normally I wouldn't indulge, but the Duncans had paid for our lodging and our supper and I was feeling particularly proud of our success.

"It's amazing what a body can stand," I said, thinking of the state we'd found Sir George in. He'd been beaten and bound, starved and dehydrated, and nailed into his own coffin, and still he'd recognized our faces when we finally broke in upon him. They'd done him a favor by tying him up before they buried him, because he'd been spared his finger ends. 

Watson wasn't listening. I reached over and grabbed his hand, meaning only to get his attention, but his palm was so warm and pleasant that I held on.

"I said, it's amazing what a body can stand!" I said again.

"Oh, certainly," he agreed, giving my hand a little squeeze. I felt it zip through my body like an electric shock. "The persistent sort can go days without water, although it isn't any fun."

"Have you ever done it?"

"Once," said he. "In the war. When we were moving camps, and something happened to the supply. We were two days without fresh water, and some of the boys got sick drinking out of a ditch." He blinked. "They died."

"Oh, good heavens, I am sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have asked."

Watson shrugged. "It's the nature of war. I made it through somehow."

"You're a lucky one, Doctor Watson," I said fondly.

"That's a certainty," he agreed. He glanced down at our joined hands, and I guiltily let go. He took the opportunity to pat his pockets, searching for a cigarette, and I watched him tuck it in the corner of his mouth while he looked for his matches. I had mine to hand, so I fished them out, lit one, and offered him the flame.

"Thank you," he murmured, leaning in. He sat back again and sighed.

"Are you warm in here?" I asked, and then without waiting for an answer, "Let's go outside."

I heard him say, "All right, then," and the squeak of his chair on the floor.

He'd brought the wine with him. We went across the road and sat on the wall that separated the road from the garden beyond. I swung my leg over to straddle it so I could face Watson. The cool air on my face cleared my head a little, but still I found myself admiring him quite openly. He offered me the bottle of wine, still smoking his cigarette. 

I took it and drank deeply. It was good wine. I was certain we weren't appreciating it to its fullest. Watson took it back and put his mouth where mine had been, and I felt my body flush hot and then cold.

 _Over a decade_ , I thought to myself. None of it wasted, of course, for who else would I bother to fall in love with but this man? It wasn't as if waiting on him was keeping me from anyone else.

Then I realized he was talking.

"–with such devotion, and it's amazing really that two people could be so closely connected."

I blinked and took the bottle for myself again.

"Married people, Holmes," Watson said. "They always seem to have some kind of… mental link."

" _Happily_ married people," I corrected him. "You and I see so many _unhappily_ married people in our line of work, no wonder a decently-behaved couple astounds you. So _many_ married people are unhappy or have done it for the wrong reasons."

"And to think Mr Wilde just wanted to be as unhappy as the rest."

"Wilde was already married," I said, pointing at Watson with the mouth of the bottle, and then taking another drink. "But not to his lover. That was the scandal."

"I think the scandal was more complicated than that," Watson said, "but I take your point. I'm just being facetious."

"Well, don't," I said. I took his neglected cigarette from him and drew deeply on it. "The point of that whole legal battle was to give everyone the opportunity to make their decisions for themselves, to _choose_ who to be happy or unhappy with. I tell you, there are couples that have been together decades or more who just want the chance to be recognized as legitimate. They've already made the commitment, why deny them protection under the law?" _That could be us_ , I thought, and almost laughed.

"I know," Watson said. He accepted the bottle again. It was almost half gone.

I pushed myself up off the wall and staggered, righted myself, and started off down the road. I didn't know where I was going, but I felt compelled to move. I heard Watson behind me, and then his arm slid into mine and he steadied me against the side of his body.

"I hope you're not storming off," he said into my ear.

"Not at all," said I, waving his cigarette, which was mine now. "I just feel like a walk."

He offered me the bottle; I declined. He put it away in an overcoat pocket and offered me his flask of brandy instead. This, I accepted. He took the cigarette back. We wandered in relative silence, he smoking and I sipping, until we reached the churchyard. The graves beyond were shadowed and peaceful, and I decided I simply must be among them.

"Where are you–? Holmes!"

I was already amongst the tombstones; he scrambled over after me. I meandered, slowly losing sensation in my fingertips, and finally sank down behind an elaborate memorial with an enormous angel on it. Watson came crashing down beside me, and we giggled together.

"You always know where _I_ am," I said.

"Untrue," Watson protested, and stubbed the cigarette out on the ground. I wanted another, but he didn't offer to light one. "What is the context for that ridiculous declaration?"

"You were saying earlier that married people always know where the other one is."

"Oh, well," Watson said. He was leaning into my shoulder, the warm bulk of his body pressing against mine and unbalancing me slightly. To correct the imbalance, I removed my arm from between us and put it around his shoulders. "Perhaps I did say that," Watson went on, "but I am rather drunk at the moment." As if to prove the point, he drained the bottle of wine. "Would it be rude to leave this here?"

"Intolerably," I said, taking it away. I put it behind the memorial instead of leaving it lying in front, and he giggled again. 

"I suppose I hadn't really thought about legal protections," said he, cuddling in under my arm and offering me his flask of brandy. I accepted, drank, and handed it back. My insides were tingling, perhaps from the alcohol, but also because this splendid man was nearly on top of me in a graveyard and it was like all my dreams had come true. "Imagine sharing your life with someone," he said, and I genuinely believe he didn't realize he was describing us, "living with them a decade, witnessing every crest and valley of their life, participating in their joys and sorrows, mingling your assets and your money, and then having it all stripped away upon the moment of their death with no recourse for compensation." At this point I think he'd started to catch his own drift. "I suppose it might not have to be death, but to be separated from someone you love and not be able to recover any of the emotional or material investment…." He sat up a little, the better to look into my eyes.

I meant to hint at it, to suggest he imagine what it might be like to watch the person you love marry someone else for the benefit of those same legal protections, or to imply that it was terrifying coming back from the dead and not knowing whether someone might want to pick up where you left off, but instead I blurted, "We should get married."

Watson blinked at me, and then he laughed. "Holmes! How very pragmatic of you. What a good idea."

"No, it's– wait, really?"

"Of course it is," he said. "Consider the money I made while you were gone. It was due, in part, to your work."

"Oh, thank you," I said, my heart now thumping in my chest.

"You ought to benefit from it."

"Well, I do; you pay half the rent."

"But if something were to happen to me! And the money you've made directly off your clients; you don't work alone, you know."

"I do not work alone," I agreed. Was he convincing himself or me?

"And all of our things, co-mingled in the flat–"

"Mrs Hudson owns most of it."

"Do shut up, you know what I mean." He put his head down on my shoulder again. 

"The tobacco?" I joked. "Do we split that if we divorce?"

He ignored me. "Should we get married as soon as we get back to London?"

"We should get married right now."

Watson looked up again. "Here?"

"In the church, perhaps," said I.

"What time is it?"

"The vicar is in there now; I saw the light."

"That could just be the… the, er…"

"Ghost light? You're thinking of a theatre." I was pushing myself to my feet and getting tangled in him.

"Oh, yes," he agreed, and together we staggered to our feet. We were going to get married.

The vicar Reverend Frederick Jennings was in the nave when we entered, and he greeted us with surprise.

"Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! It's a pleasure, of course; can I help you gentlemen?"

"We wish to be married, vicar," Watson announced.

"Oh," the Reverend said, taken aback. "I'm not sure– Dr Watson, I'm afraid we have a few rules about that sort of thing."

"Rules?" Watson said. "What sort of rules?"

The vicar looked around, as if concerned he was being watched, but as far as I could tell– through almost a whole bottle of wine to myself a quite a bit of brandy– there was no one else inside. "Well, we usually don't perform weddings after about half-past-three in the afternoon, and it is… quite gone eight."

"I suppose it is an unusual circumstance," Watson allowed.

"And you have no witnesses," Jennings went on. "And no license, I presume."

"No…" Watson said. Abruptly he took my hand and pressed it to his breast. "Reverend, please, don't you suppose you could bend a few of those rules?"

"What, all of the ones I have just named?"

Watson nodded, the picture of earnestness.

"Dr Watson, Mr Holmes, you honor me with your request," Jennings said, "but I'm afraid it is quite… unprecedented."

I thought for sure he was going to say 'impossible', but now I saw there was some room for persuasion. Frederick Jennings was a good man, and not susceptible to bribes of money, but he did like the idea of a little fame.

"John," I said softly, and saw Watson jump, "we don't have to do it here. We could go back and… my brother will insist on Westminster, of course…"

"Reverend, my dear Sherlock is very private. The idea of being married in Westminster is abhorrent to him." He laced our fingers together and gazed fondly at me. Even I was almost convinced he wasn't acting. "We've wanted to be married for so long, but he won't do it where we'd have to announce it to everyone, to endure the engagement. We don't have families with whom to visit, and the expectations are quite painful. Besides, we're too well-known, you see, to do it without it becoming a spectacle."

"I see," the vicar said slowly.

"I love this man," Watson said. "I want to honor him with a commitment."

I blinked back unexpected tears. 

Jennings cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I cannot marry you without a license."

"Where do we get one?" Watson demanded. "We'll go knock them up right now and have one drawn up."

"Well, I… actually happen to have one in my office."

"We're not whisking it out from underneath someone else, are we?" he asked.

"No, no," he assured us, but I could tell that was exactly what was happening. "It's… no, don't worry, gentlemen." Worrying was quite out of the question, but I didn't tell him that. Jennings said, "Stay here, just a moment," and disappeared out the front door.

Watson and I stared at each other in silence, and then began giggling again.

"We're doing it!" he declared. Then he grabbed both my hands and pulled me towards him, embracing me. With his cheek against my cheek, I heard him murmur, "You'll be stuck with me, now."

"Yes indeed," I agreed, my arms around his shoulders. He smelled of wine and smoke and the faint impression of his soap, applied so many hours ago. We'd worked hard these past few days, and the stubble of his facial hair scratched at my neck. I felt the sensation all over my body.

He pulled back to look into my eyes, quite serious despite how drunk he was. "Are you sure you want to?"

I had never been more sure in my life. "Yes."

Watson smiled, sweet and fond, and then he kissed me on the mouth.

It was a brief kiss, and not very elegantly done. I wasn't in a state to react quickly, and it was over almost before I had realized what happened. He laughed, delighted with himself, and embraced me again. His arms were warm and strong, and the sensation of his body against mine– the press of his chest, the dig of his chin into my shoulder– was delightful.

Jennings returned, and we separated. The vicar had two young women in tow, obviously roused quickly from whatever their evening occupation was, and they both looked confused. That was understandable. 

"Now, gentlemen," said he, leading our strange wedding party through the choir to the altar, "may I introduce Gretchen and Eliza? They work for me and are residents of the parish; they will be your witnesses."

"Charmed," Watson said, shaking their hands.

"Thank you for taking the time," I agreed. I wondered if they could tell how drunk we were. Watson was hiding it well, although he wasn't very steady on his feet.

Jennings had us fill out the license: writing in my name next to John Watson's had a solemnity to it, even though I could barely see. Watson's hand only shook a little. He took it back from us and wrote in the date, our ages and professions, and whatever other pertinent information he needed to record.

We hadn't discussed changing our names, although now seemed to be the time one would do such a thing. _Dr and Mr John H. Watson_ , I thought. _The consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Watson_. I began to giggle. 

"What?" Watson hissed.

"Dr John H. Holmes," I chortled.

"I didn't understand a word of that," he said. He put his arm around my middle, as if that was something we did– we did, now!– and gave me a little shake. "Can you focus, please, master detective? We're getting married." Then he squeezed me hard. "Holmes! We don't have any rings!"

For a moment my stomach dropped. We would have to put little tied pieces of string around one another's fingers. How deeply inelegant! I patted my pockets, as if that would help, and froze in surprise when my hand met the hard packet I'd carried in that jacket for years.

I drew it out slowly from my left breast pocket. It was a small cloth pouch that, living in that pocket, had escaped being laundered over and over. I opened the buttons on it, unfolded the cloth, and presented two gleaming gold rings to Watson.

"Good heavens," said he, taking one. "How do you do that?"

"Ready for anything," I replied.

"These are men's rings," he said. He tried to put one on and it got stuck just below his second knuckle.

"Of course they're men's rings. Give me that." I took the one he'd picked up and put it on my own hand.

"Is that one mine?" He picked up the other, and it fit.

"It is now," I lied.

"We're ready for you, gentlemen," Jennings said, from the altar. "If you'd like to proceed."

"Yes," I said. Watson took off the ring and handed it back to me. I put them, loose, into my pocket again, and then boldly took his hand. "Come on then. We're getting married."


	7. JHW 1st May, 1896

Holmes was silent for a long time, staring into the empty fireplace. He'd stopped pacing finally and come to sit beside me; I was almost close enough to touch his knee. The pipe he was smoking had gone out, but he was still holding it loosely in his hand.

"So, we said our vows," I prompted. I felt the ring on my finger with my thumb. It still felt right to have it there. "And then what happened?"

Holmes shook himself. "We said our vows, and signed the register, and then Jennings rolled the certificate up and handed it to you with his congratulations." He rubbed his face with his free hand. "We walked back to the inn, and they wanted to know where we'd gone, so we told them everything. Mostly everything. We drank a good deal more in celebration, somehow, without committing self-murder. I think you carried me upstairs."

"I did. You could hardly walk."

"I think you insisted on carrying me over the threshold, which in retrospect I object to."

I couldn't help smiling. "Why?'

"Well, I'm your husband, not your wife, so the superstition is meaningless. Furthermore, it wasn't even the doorway to our home."

"I apologize," I said. "I won't do it again."

He glanced at me sideways, trying to see if I was joking or not. I wasn't, not really. I hadn't planned on marrying again at all, and I certainly wasn't going to after this. This was it, even if I'd been right about our pragmatical reasoning.

I reached out and grasped his shoulder, squeezing it in what I hoped was a reassuring manner.

"Thank you," I said softly. "I— I still can't remember any of it, but you paint a promising picture. Even if we went about it in an arse-backwards sort of way, I trust our friendship can stand up to being married."

He blinked at me. His blacked eye was darkening and I had done nothing to take care of it.

"Wait here," I said, and got up. He needed a cold compress on his face to stop the swelling.

I went downstairs to the kitchen, where I knew there was ice in the ice box. Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind if I chipped a little off for Holmes's sake. I wet a towel in the meantime and put it on top of the ice block while I tried to pry off a piece with a knife.

While I was fumbling with it, getting nowhere, I heard footsteps on the stairs, coming down, and then the street door open and close.

"Holmes?" I called, turning around in surprise. Who else could it be? I got up and hurried out into the hall. No one else had stirred; I pulled the street door open and looked out. "Holmes!"

The street was empty. Either he'd gotten into a cab or ducked into a doorway to avoid being seen.

"What on earth?" I wondered aloud. I felt bereft. He hadn't really finished his story: the end had fallen apart and I still wondered what the kiss after the ceremony had been like. He had't told me where he'd gotten the rings from, nor why he'd been carrying them, _nor_ why one of them fit my hand so well: he'd never asked me to pretend to be married for a disguise, not to him or anyone else. It was very suspicious indeed.

I went back upstairs and sat in my empty sitting room, the cold compress held to my own face. It helped my jaw immensely, but I didn't feel better. Where could Holmes have gone? Had he rushed off to finish our case without me? At this hour? Why?

The silence of the sitting room enveloped me, and forced me to sit and think about what he'd told me, and what little I remembered, and how the last week had felt. The lamps were burning low, and despite the pain in my jaw I found myself falling into a contemplative stupor. 

He had kissed me. Tonight. He had kissed me on purpose, in the street, in celebration. His emotions had been running high, the excitement of the chase had set him off, but he had done it quite intentionally. And, most importantly, I had liked it. I had liked it very much; so much, in fact, that thinking on that kiss made my blood pound in my ears. Thinking of the press of his body in the doorway, and the weight of him on my lap in the cab, made the blood pound between my legs.

Conclusion: I wanted him. I wanted him very much, and marrying him made having him possible. Why I hadn't thought of this before was rather stupid.

Hypothesis: he wanted me in return. He'd wanted me before tonight, before this past week, before we were married. Further hypothesis, although thinking about it felt like looking into a bright light: he had wanted me for quite a while.

I couldn't quite fathom it. The description of the night I'd lost made it sound like it _had_ been a pragmatic decision, but he was not known for his emotional vulnerability. It would be very like him to convince me to do something for a deeply tender reason while telling me it was for a case, for the work, for the good of someone other than him; for the good of us.

And I had agreed. I had agreed so readily, without a peep of protest. Why had I done that?

Yes, I wanted to secure my future with him: my only close friend, my dearest companion. I wanted to be linked to him forever, not only in my literature but with a legal standing. I wanted to be sure he wouldn't leave me again.

I closed my eyes against that realization, but of course once it had risen to the surface of my consciousness it couldn't be ignored. I wanted him to never leave me, as he had done once already, and as Mary had done. Losing Mary proved even marriage couldn't stop someone from death, but people had treated me differently after her passing than they had after Holmes's. They had spoken more softly about her, seen my widower's weeds and given me gentle looks. I hadn't been able to mourn Holmes the same way, despite our much longer association. It was as if marrying him now could bring some of that back, gain me a little more respect as a man twice widowed and once revived.

When first I had met Sherlock Holmes, I had been wounded, ill, and alone. My family had nothing to offer, and my friends had left London for better, or worse, situations. I had hoped to find a situation or join a practice by the time I ran into Stamford, but it was more difficult than I expected, and my health was not strong enough to sustain a full-time position. I was despairing, and Sherlock Holmes looked upon me with such kindness, and read my history and my suffering without pity, that it was impossible not to like him at once. He fascinated me, and becoming his friend had been both a pleasure and an honor.

As we grew to know one another, as I became introduced to his work and the inner workings of his mind, my respect, awe, and fondness for him deepened.

I thought about the night we'd spent sitting up together, waiting for Helen Stoner to light her lamp. He had cared so deeply for her and her struggle, taken her so seriously, on a topic I imagined anyone else without his experience would have scoffed at. We saved her life by believing her, and his valiant efforts endeared him to me.

Then there was the time I'd rushed to Lyons to rescue him from himself, his room littered with telegrams and the man himself in a heap on the bed. He'd felt so thin in my arms, the strain of the work tolling on him physically and emotionally. I made him go on holiday with me to Reigate, and, though the holiday turned into a working holiday, witnessing his revival was deeply satisfying. I have always enjoyed taking care of him.

Even after I'd met and married my wife, I couldn't stay away from Holmes. Mary had been the direction I supposed my life ought to take, a safe-harbor from my fears about being a broken former soldier and a medico who wasn't practicing. The path I was on with her felt safe, but I always yearned for the excitement and danger that Holmes had provided. I kept leaving her behind to take part in his work. Even when I bought my Paddington practice, I was always looking to him for adventure.

I should have stayed closer to my wife, while she was still alive.

I couldn't do anything about that now.

The years between meeting Mary and losing them both were some of the best in my life. I had everything I wanted: a wife, a career, a best friend who was always glad to see me. Now I realized perhaps those years were not so rosy to him: I had divided my time, chosen someone else over him, and only appeared on his doorstep when I needed him. How much had I given when he needed me? He had certainly dropped by to whisk me away on some puzzle or other, but I couldn't think of an instance where he had visited simply for the sake of visiting.

No doubt stepping into my marital home was less than encouraging to him.

And then, of course, there was the shock of losing him at Reichenbach. I could revisit that emotion with uncomfortable ease: the feeling of standing at the edge of the waterfall, my heart pounding, his note crumpled in my hand. Screaming his name into the falls. Throwing myself down in the mud to try and see past the swirling water. Searching for any sign that I was mistaken. Not finding it. Sitting there for more than an hour, waiting for something to change. Staggering back down the mountain path, blinded by my grief.

The black depression into which I fell upon my return to London, which only eased as I began writing about him again. Revisiting our adventures at the urging of my wife was the only thing that kept me going, that first year.

Bloody hell, I did love him. Not only that, but I was quite undeniably _in_ love with him.

The compress had gotten warm by now, so I put it aside. It was after midnight. Somehow I knew Holmes wouldn't be back; he hadn't gone in pursuit of more clues, he had run to hide. Possibly to one of his bolt holes, or perhaps to his brother's. I considered writing a note to send after him in the morning, but he would have to come back here eventually. I would just be ready for his return, with open arms and a renewed sense of honesty. I felt like I ought to be scared of that honesty, but we were _already married_.

I sighed. He would have to be convinced again that this was a good idea. He'd risked my rejection by suggesting the whole thing in the first place and been rewarded with my drunken agreement. But by admitting I didn't remember, it was as if I'd withdrawn that agreement. I was going to have to court him the way he never courted me; the way I had never imagined pursuing my friend until he put a ring on my finger.

For a moment I thought about sleeping in his bed, to give him a real surprise if he came home before dawn, but decided against it. That would be too much for him in his delicate state. Instead I went up to my own bed, undressed, and fell asleep listening for his return.


	8. SH 2nd May, 1896

I left Baker Street and went to my brother's. Not directly, of course. Upon my escape from the house, I went immediately around the corner and down the Marylebone Road. I thought I heard Watson calling my name behind me; I ignored it. The street was still crowded, for it was just after midnight on a Friday, and I lost myself in the arms of humanity as I thought and overthought.

I had told Watson it was a marriage of convenience. Even on that very night, I had very nearly let him think it was his own pragmatical idea. I hadn't been honest, not even about the godforsaken rings. I squeezed my fingers together, feeling the hard press of the ring between them; I didn't want to take it off, not for anything. How could I have done this to myself? How could I live life letting him think it was a friendship made solid, and not my deepest desire come to life? How much a coward was I?

The crushing feeling in my chest and the fluttering in my stomach was not my area of expertise, so I went to Mycroft. It wasn't his either, but at least together we had a better chance of figuring it out. He lived just across the street from his club in Pall Mall, two miles on foot from my home. I was there in half an hour. It was nearly one in the morning by this point, so the look I got from his housekeeper after a protracted period of waiting was positively frigid.

Mycroft was disgruntled by being knocked up at this hour, but I went to see him so infrequently that he knew something was wrong. He appeared in his nightshirt and dressing gown, a nightcap upon his head.

"Sherlock, my dear boy," he said, ushering me in and guiding me toward the sitting room. "You look terrible."

"Thank you," I said dryly.

"Drink?" he asked, gesturing toward his bar cupboard.

"No." I sank onto the settee. My face ached. My whole body ached. I should be at home with my Doctor. I was getting too old for this nonsense.

Mycroft sat down across from me and looked me over carefully, reading the story off my visage. I relaxed under the scrutiny; not having to explain myself in his presence was one of my greatest reliefs. We always had a healthy streak of competition between us, but he was as much a parent to me as our own parents had been. He knew what troubled me often before I did.

"It was stupid of you to leave," he said finally.

"I know." I slid down a little on the settee, stretching out like a petulant boy.

"Tell me what happened."

"Can't you–?"

"Most of it."

"We were drunk the night we got married," I said. "So drunk that Watson can't remember any of it."

Mycroft blinked at me, and then settled back into his chair and crossed his arms over his ample belly. "That's rather inconvenient," said he. "I knew you were intoxicated, otherwise you'd have never gone through with it, but…. Oh, Sherlock."

I nodded. "I didn't even tell him the truth that night, or an hour ago when I narrated the whole thing for him. He agreed to do it to share his royalties with me."

My brother snorted. "No, he didn't."

"He did! I convinced him to do it on the grounds that we ought to—"

"No," Mycroft said again, cutting me off. "He didn't."

"Mycroft—"

"Sherlock, don't be an idiot."

I shut my mouth.

"Why did you come here tonight?"

I said nothing.

"That's what I thought," said he. "Doctor Watson would certainly have forgiven you for being such a fool, you know."

"Would he?" I asked, skeptical.

Mycroft looked up at the ceiling and sighed deeply. "Doctor Watson has one of the most generous souls I have ever known, and he is friends with you, one of the most self-centered and trying men I have ever known."

"And you work in government."

"Sherlock," he scolded. "He forgave you the ruse at Reichenbach."

"He… sometimes I think he has not forgiven me for that."

We were silent a moment as Mycroft took that in.

"What makes you think such a thing?" he asked finally.

I shook my head. "I don't know. The way he looks sometimes, like he's surprised to see me. When we argue, I feel like it's on the tip of his tongue."

"Does he ever remind you of it? Intentionally, I mean."

"No. Not on purpose."

"In the grand scheme of your friendship, it was not very long ago," Mycroft said. "He may still find that the reminder of it pains him, and unfortunately you are the reminder of it."

"But I came back," I protested.

"That you did, which in some circumstances might be considered adding insult to injury."

I scowled.

"Sherlock, it's very late. Take the settee, I'll find you a blanket, and we will talk in the morning." Mycroft heaved himself out of his chair and went down the hall. I heard him rummaging, and then he came back with a heavy quilt and a pillow.

"Wash your face," said he. "You look like you've been in a fight."

"Goodnight, brother," I replied, shooing him away.

I did wash my face, and made my ablutions, and then undressed down to my vest and drawers. Laying on the settee, whose cushions were flattened by years of heavy use, under the blanket that smelled of the cupboard, I wished I'd stayed home. I could be in my own bed, at least, feeling exactly the same way I did now: confused, hurt, betrayed, guilty. I wondered what Watson would think of my cowardice, of my inability to see the conversation through to its end. I wondered what he would say when I told him the real reason I had married him.

He had kissed me back. That was important. He'd been surprised, but he'd been sober, and he'd kissed me back. He had embraced me and kissed me and the physical evidence of his desire for me had made my heart pound.

It didn't rouse me now, for the feeling was followed immediately by that cold-water sensation of him putting a hand on my chest and saying, "I don't remember any of it."

The clock struck two, and then three, before I finally fell asleep.

Mycroft was waiting for me when I awoke. He was fully dressed and breakfast was on the table. I slunk away to the wash room to dress in my day-old clothes— at least they were from the club, so I looked halfway respectable— and came back still feeling grimy, wrinkled, and unrested.

My brother asked me about my case as we ate, to ease the way. I told him about the diplomat, his unusual and erratic behavior, and my suspicions about the company he was keeping. Then I had to tell him about infiltrating the club, eavesdropping and asking too many questions, and getting into a scuffle. That, of course, led to our dash from the police, at which Mycroft rolled his eyes hard enough to give himself a headache, and the final result: that I had kissed John Watson in public.

"And he returned this affection?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes."

"What happened next?"

I told him about the cab, glossed over the fact that I'd been in Watson's lap for a glorious few minutes, and explained what Watson had told me.

"He remembers nothing?"

"Apparently not."

Mycroft shook his head. "Oh, Sherlock," he said.

"I don't want pity," I said, although that wasn't true.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want you to tell me what to do now!"

He snorted and picked up his coffee cup. "Sherlock, you and I are two of the most unsociable men in England. I have gone out of my way to stay that way, but you have managed to attach yourself to a person whose company you enjoy, who not only returns that sentiment, but who, in my unlearned opinion, practically worships you. I can't go anywhere without hearing your name, thanks to him. The hard work is already done; you have secured your future with him legally. If you want my suggestion, since you've come all the way here to eat my eggs and mope about, it is that you take the opportunity you have so neatly arranged for yourself, never mind how you arranged it, and secure that future with him _personally_." He made a face, somewhere between disdain and jealousy. "Emotionally."

I said nothing. 

"Sherlock."

"Yes, yes, I heard you."

Mycroft shook his head at me. "Don't waste this," he said. "Divorce is an ugly process, and requires allegations against one or both of you that are unflattering and unbelievable. With your history as friends and your public visibility as colleagues, and the newness of the legal precedent, you'll have a difficult time untangling yourselves again."

"I don't— I don't want to divorce him!" I said. That was the _last_ thing I wanted. I wanted to die in his arms, mortally wounded by a madman, before I signed a piece of paper stating I didn't want him anymore.

"Well, then," my brother said, "don't. But don't let him languish under the assumption that you two are nothing more than partners in convenience, either. It would be cruel."

It would be very cruel. John Watson's heart would not stand it. I couldn't let him suffer like that for the sake of my ego. Not again.

I took a cab back to Baker Street and then oscillated on the pavement long enough for Watson to tap on the window and gesture at me from the sitting room. When I went inside, he was waiting with his hands in his pockets, a sign that he was particularly nervous. He looked so good in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his pocket watch chain strung across his middle, his collar buttoned up to his throat, his trousers pressed and his house slippers peeking out from beneath. How could I have walked away from this man?

"Holmes—" he began.

"John, I'm sorry," I said, interrupting him so that I could get my apology out of the way before he tried to apologize instead.

"Oh," said he, "I—"

"I shouldn't have run off," I said.

"Where did you go?"

"My brother's apartment."

"Did you eat?"

Bless him. That was the only thing he ever truly worried about. "Yes, I had breakfast."

"Good, good." He paused, chewing his lip, and then he said, "I thought perhaps we could go for a walk, if you're amenable."

"I feel that we haven't finished our conversation from last night," said I.

"We can talk as we walk," Watson said. "Would that suit you?"

"I'd really like to change my clothes first."

He smiled. "Of course. How is your eye feeling?"

The swelling had gone down overnight and the bruise was slight, just shadowing the soft skin under my eye. "It's fine," I said. "I'll just— give me a few minutes."

I slipped into my bedroom and changed my clothes completely, from my drawers to my necktie. When I emerged once more, Watson was wearing his jacket and boots. Together we put on our hats and I advised against coats, given the rising spring temperature outside. He picked up his walking stick in the entryway, and we went outside.

"The park, I presume?" I said.

He nodded. As we walked up the street in that direction, he quietly took hold of my upper arm and I bent my elbow to give him a place to rest. We were quiet for a while, arm in arm, but finally as we crossed a bridge in the park he said, "I trust your brother is well."

"Oh," I scoffed, "he's exactly the same as he always is."

"I'm glad you went to him," Watson said, "and not just… one of your secret hideaways."

I hummed. He was warm and solid beside me, and the pressure of his hand on my biceps shifted minutely as we walked. His walking stick tapped on the ground. We came upon a bench, and although we'd only been walking a few minutes, I said, "Will you sit with me?"

"Of course," said he. We sat side by side, just an inch or two apart, and gazed at the ducks on the pond. He was quiet, trying to decide how to broach the next topic.

"I'm afraid I misled you," I said, swallowing my ego. "When I suggested we marry."

Watson's jaw tightened. "Oh."

"It's what I was discussing with my brother. He made it clear that I ought to tell you the truth."

His hands clenched on the top of the walking stick, and I felt him shift his weight away from me. He took a deep breath and let it out again without saying anything.

"The truth is, Watson," I said. I felt heat rising in my chest and up my neck into my face. His ring glinted on his finger: I already _had_ him, I just needed to keep him. "The truth is it's much more complicated than your royalties, or our furniture."

He tipped his head a little, listening without looking at me. 

"Do you know I've been carrying that ring you're wearing since 1893?"

He glanced at me. "Sorry, since when?"

"1893. I bought it in Montpelier." I lifted my hand. "This one too. Marriage has been legal in France since the 80's; they've always had a more lenient attitude towards the whole thing than we have. Amazing, really, given that the—"

"Holmes." Watson was giving me a stern look.

"Right. Well, as I said, I bought them, what, three years ago now."

"Why? You didn't know you were coming back then, did you?"

"I did not." I shook my head. "I don't know what I was thinking, but I've carried them next to my heart since then, with you in mind. I didn't know the laws would change, I didn't know any of it would even be possible, but I have— you would not call me a marrying man."

"No," Watson said with a smile. "It would be a rare woman who would suit you."

"Women have never suited me. I'm sure you drew that conclusion on your own."

He ducked his head, smile widening. "I did."

"And, to be transparent, very few men have ever suited me, either. I find romantic entanglements very… as motivators, they are very clear. As experiences, they are alarming and unfamiliar."

He looked at me, the shadow of his hat falling half across his face. "Is that why you married me?" he asked. "Because I suited you?"

"No, of course not!" I said.

"Why, then?"

I looked away, my heart thundering in my chest. I squeezed my hands on my knees and looked back at him; the patient, tender expression on his face was the only thing I ever needed in life.

"Because I love you."


	9. JHW 2nd May, 1896

"Oh," I said, my eyes pricking with tears.

"I love you, and I've always loved you, and I am determined to spend the rest of my life with you, and if you object of course I understand, and I won't force you to do anything you don't want, because causing you any sort of harm is abhorrent to me; the idea that—"

"Holmes," I said.

"— I have misled you and entrapped you into some kind of—"

" _Holmes_ ," I said again.

"— unwanted or unwelcome partnership, well it simply won't— I apologise for last night, I shouldn't have—"

I kissed him to shut him up. My hat bumped against his hat, my nose hit his cheekbone, but my mouth met his and he stopped talking. I took off my hat and kissed him again. His frame softened, the breath rushing out of him, and he kissed me back. With my hand still in my hand, I rested my forearm on his shoulder and pulled him closer so that I could kiss him more deeply. Our lips parted and my tongue touched his. He sighed, his hands coming to grip the lapels of my jacket. He tasted of unfamiliar tooth powder. When we separated, he pressed his forehead to mine and we were silent a moment, eyes closed, breathing each other in.

A scrape on the gravel around the corner reminded us we were in public and probably not as alone as we thought. Though this kiss had been legalized and we were technically protected, it felt strange and exposed. I sat back from Holmes as a young couple— a man and a woman— walked by, with their chaperone trailing behind. Holmes meanwhile stared at the ducks again, his cheeks pink. When the couple had gone, he looked at me, his silver eyes deep and intent, and said, "Let's go home."

We went back through the park arm in arm, but this time my walking stick did not touch the ground. Holmes held my hand against his side with a firm press of his elbow, leading me at twice the pace he had set on our way in. We were back at Baker Street in just a few minutes.

Mrs Hudson came out to see what the fuss was. Holmes let my hand slip from his elbow but caught my fingers in his.

"I'm sorry to have worried you," he said. "I was being foolish last night."

"Oh, I'm sure you were, dear," our housekeeper replied kindly. "Have you figured it all out now?"

She probably meant the case we'd been engaged to solve, but Holmes had probably forgotten all about that now. It wasn't a particularly interesting puzzle, I thought.

"More or less," Holmes said. "Just a few details to finalize; may I beg that you not trouble us for lunch until we call?"

I was sure I was blushing. I had no cause to imagine our relations would turn physical so quickly, but Holmes's demeanour did have an intensity to it I only recognised because I'd experienced it the night before.

"Certainly," she said. "I'll keep it warm for you."

"You are a saint," said he. "If you have errands to run, please feel free to do so. I think we will be occupied for a while."

An expression flashed across her face, and I knew Holmes had gone too far, insinuated too much. It was now clear to her what we were about. I gave Holmes a nudge up the stairs and said, "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," to her over my shoulder. By Jove, I hope she did go run an errand.

He closed and locked the sitting room door behind us. We took off our hats and jackets, changed into our house slippers, and then looked at one another, a little lost.

"Come, sit with me," I said, taking his hand and leading him to the settee.

We sat. I wanted to pick up where we had left off, but I couldn't decide if that was the conversation or the kiss. His hands hovered in the air.

"Watson—" he began, and then before I could correct him he laughed and said, "John. Do you— may I kiss you again?"

"Please," I said, resting my hand upon his knee. He swallowed and lifted his hand to my cheek, where it rested awkwardly as he tried to calculate the angle at which to approach. He was thinking about it too hard, of course. I squeezed his thigh and pressed my mouth to his.

Catalysed, he slid his hand into my hair and kissed me deeply. We traded kisses like that for a long time, feeling one another out. It wasn't the same wild passion I'd felt the night before in the cab; instead it built slowly from a coal to a fire, and soon the blood was thrumming between my legs. Holmes was breathing hard when we finally parted again.

"May I... untie your tie?" he asked.

"Yes," said I, reaching for his. We also agreed to unfasten our collars and I was able to slip my fingers inside the back of his shirt to cup the nape of his neck as we kissed again. He shuddered and sighed, finding the fabric of my sleeves with his fingers. Then went our shirt cuffs and our waistcoat buttons, followed quickly by our waistcoats themselves. In our shirtsleeves, we sank back onto the settee, rather more horizontal than before, with me half on top of Holmes. He spread his legs to accommodate me and I could feel his arousal pressing hard against my hip. He did not shy away from me.

"How long has it been since you've… been with anyone?" I asked, before I could stop myself.

He looked up at the ceiling, calculating, and then said, "Twenty… two years, I think."

I almost sat up, but the iron grip of his arm stopped me. "Good heavens, Holmes."

"As I said, it's rare that anyone interests me enough to stoke an amorous desire."

"How many times has it happened?" I regretted the question immediately, and said, "Never mind, you don't have to tell me that."

"Three other times," he said. "Twice in college; once in University. Then work consumed me, and then I met you."

"Oh, my dear fellow," said I, stroking his face.

He smiled. "I would have waited twenty more years," he said softly.

"Thank God we didn't have to."

"Indeed. Er, do you think we ought to move?"

"Move?"

"Before we become too… distracted."

"Your bedroom?"

"It will suffice," he said. "It's clean enough."

"Should we consider combining our bedrooms?" I asked, climbing off him and helping him up. He picked up our waistcoats off the floor.

"Let's see how this goes first," he said.

I stared at him, shocked, until I realised he was joking.

He led me into his bedroom, which was clean _enough_. The bed was unmade and there were clothes thrown on the chair in the corner, near enough to his wardrobe that if it were my room I'd have just put them away, but there was nothing objectionable on the floor and his dressing table only had one layer of discarded odds and ends on it.

Holmes was taking off his trousers and his shirt, so I followed suit. He pulled back the blanket for me and we climbed very civilly into his bed. It wasn't even eleven in the morning. The sun was still at the front of the house, but plenty of ambient light came in his window that there was no need to light the lamp.

We lay face to face; Holmes propped his head up on his hand. My hand found his bare flank and I began to stroke up and down his side absently I gazed at him. He cupped my face with his other hand and kissed me again, opening my mouth up with a gentle tongue and inviting himself inside. Arousal rushed through my body. I wanted him on top of me; I wanted to be atop him with equal fervour. His warm smell filled my awareness, and I pulled him against me so that his hardness brushed against mine. He let out a little gasp.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, as if being fully erect in his bed wasn't enough of a clue.

"I may have married you under confused circumstances," I said, "but I assure you I am no longer confused."

He grinned. "Good. I worried you might… shy away from making love with a person of your own sex."

I slid my knee over his, bringing our hips closer together. "You're right that you'll be the first, but I've come to terms with the idea. Just…" I let my voice grow breathy, "be gentle with me."

Holmes leaned over and bit my lip, as if promising nothing of the sort, and as we kissed he rolled so that he was entirely on top of me. His body was a comfortable, welcome weight all along my chest and belly; I relaxed into the sensation of being... not captive, exactly, but captivated. He rolled his hips against mine, driving our pricks together, and our kisses faltered and became more frantic. We rocked slowly together, the heat building, until he stopped all at once and pushed up on his elbows to look down into my face.

"I love you," he said again, his eyes shining with earnestness.

"I love you," I replied.

He sighed, blinked rapidly, and rolled off to the side again. I thought for a moment he was going away, but instead he pressed up against me and passed a hand down my front, stopping just shy of the fly on my drawers.

"May I?" he asked.

" _Please_ ," I said. "I wish you would."

He grinned and moved his hand to cover the hard ridge of my prick, where it tented my drawers up. My hips jerked up into the pressure and I gasped as he gripped me through the fabric. He began massaging me slowly like that, rubbing up and down my shaft and playing with my tip with his thumb. I let my eyes roll back in my head and gave myself over to the pleasure of it, grasping at his bare back and the sheet beneath me.

Then he murmured, "May I?" again and I ground out my agreement as he untied the fly on my drawers. My cock sprang out to meet his hand, and he ducked his head to run his tongue around my nipple as he began to stroke me. The sensation zinged through me, as if the two were directly connected, and I found myself spreading my legs wide to give him access. He stroked me slowly at first as he kissed my chest, and then as I began to squirm he sped his hand up. He was reading my reactions to the touch of his hand the same way he read my thoughts from my face, and the thought made me hot all over.

He was pressing his own prick against my hip in a steady rhythm. I had to touch him. I extracted my arm from beneath his head and reached down to press my palm between his legs. He jumped, rolling half onto his back to give me space. I fumbled open his drawers, even as he kept his hands moving on my cockstand, and his stiff prick in my hand felt wonderful. He groaned in my ear as I began to touch him. How awkward the angle must have felt, but I was determined to give him the pleasure he was already giving me. 

"John, let me— let me finish you," he said softly.

"Sorry," I said, letting go reluctantly.

"No, it's lovely, and I'm mad for your touch, but it'll be easier if you let me— and then you can—"

"Yes, yes," I said, pulling his face down for another kiss. He kissed me hard, licking deep and biting my mouth; his hand around my prick moved hard and fast, slicked by my own excitement. I sank into the pleasure, letting it wind tighter and tighter between my thighs. I gripped Holmes's arm, even though that hindered his movement, and held onto the back of his neck, panting into his mouth. He held me tightly, pulling back just a little to watch my face, and rubbed his prick against my hip. I could feel my prick growing stiffer, thickening, my bollocks tightening as I neared my peak. Holmes noticed it too, for he quickened his pace further and gripped me tighter; I clutched at him, arching, my hips rising, and then all at once the spasm took me, and I spent over his fingers.

He groaned softly, leaning down to kiss me as I shook, and I'm afraid I couldn't muster the coordination to kiss back.

When I could catch my breath, Holmes was gazing down at me. His hand rested gingerly on my ribs. I lifted my chin to kiss him and then reached for his prick again.

He rolled onto his back at once, flopping down beside me and pushing himself into my grip. His prick was already dripping, and it slid easily through my fist. I jerked him quickly, pinching his nipples with my other hand. He moaned and gasped, the tension in his body ratcheting up, and it didn't take long before he was clutching at my wrist and grinding out a warning.

I felt a sympathetic twinge in my own pelvis as he spilled, and a warmth in my chest as he gasped my name. I bent to kiss his forehead, holding him close as he shuddered; he tucked his face into my neck and I felt a dampness there. When he relaxed again, his eyelashes sparkled. I pretended not to notice.

We rolled apart so that we were side-by-side on our backs. I realised we would have to clean up before we dried sticky, so I got carefully out of the bed and followed his directions to find a clean towel and his wash basin. We wiped ourselves off and I climbed back in beside him. He rolled at once into my arms, wrapping himself around me and clinging to me with all his limbs.

I embraced him, holding him as closely as the laws of nature would allow. I pressed my cheek to his hair. He murmured something into the skin of my shoulder.

I pulled back. "What was that?"

"I was just…" Holmes cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier, that's all." He touched my face, and I felt his ring, body-warm against my cheek.

"There's no use in that," I said. "What's done is done, and there's no changing it."

"No, I suppose not," he said slowly.

"We're here now," I said, "together, and I can't wait to see what else we can do."

"Imagine the trouble we can get in now," said Holmes smiling.

"I love you," said I. "My husband."

"More than anything," he said, "I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY PRIDE MONTH, EVERYBODY. Get gay married.


End file.
